Moments in Time
by andeemae
Summary: Snippets from the life of Madge Undersee. Family and friends make appearances.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I'm just playing with Suzanne Collins' characters and her world. They're hers. Not mine.

**Candy**

"Don't touch."

Madge watched in wonder as the enormous machine churned the concoction her grandfather had made just a few minutes earlier.

Melted sugar and cream, her grandfather had dropped a glob of it into a mug of water once it had reached the right temperature to see if it 'balled up'. It had, and they'd moved on to the next step. Vanilla, baking soda, butter, then more stirring.

Madge was watching it, anticipating the next step. She'd crushed the pecans herself.

"Poppa!"

It was ready, dull and sluggish.

He gave her a bright smile before helping her dump in her mass of smashed pecans and letting the machine fold them in.

"Now we spread it in the pan and let it set," he told her as he halted the churning.

"But can't we stick in the freezer? Then it'll be ready real quick."

Quicker was better. She thought about the treat a little more. Definitely better.

He only shook his head and gave a lock of her hair a tug, "Ah, no, my dear. Freezing will make the candy hard, and this candy is meant to be chewy. Remember?"

She did, but she still didn't want to wait. She sighed dramatically, as only a six year old could.

"But…"

Poppa peered at her over his ancient glasses, they were chipped on the sides and loose, always sliding down his nose.

"Madge, good things come to those who wait."

Fidgeting, she finally nodded. Poppa was very wise, he knew when the best time to plant tomatoes was, when the carrots would be best to pull, and how hot the oven had to be for her father's favorite glass candy, so he must be right. Even if she _really_wanted her candy sooner rather than later.

"Let's go check your mother," he tells her, giving her a little push toward the door.

Her mother was sitting at the kitchen table, behind the storefront in her family's shop. In front of her was a pan of fudge, she was swirling it with white chocolate, all the way from the Capitol. Madge peeked at it and saw her mother had written two names.

_Matilda. Maysilee._

"My sister and I use to write our names in the fudge all the time, before it was cut. No one ever knew." She had told her once.

Her mother did it every time they visited Poppa, wrote 'Matilda' and 'Maysilee' in the fudge.

Never Madge, though.

She'd asked her once, if she would, only to be met with that vacant look her mother got when she disappeared into her mind to avoid something unpleasant.

Keeping a tradition with a long dead twin was more important than her very much alive daughter's feelings.

"That's lovely Mati," Poppa told her as he kissed the top of her head.

Madge wanted to run her hands through the fudge, ruin the names, but that was a bad thought and she stepped away.

The bell jingled in the front, someone had come in, and Madge quickly followed after Poppa to greet them, leaving her mother to her ghosts.

"Ah, Jude, it isn't Sunday is it?"

The man is a miner, Madge can see his boots from where she stands behind the glass display with her grandfather's candies in it. He has on a coal covered coat, not too heavy, it's starting to get warmer, probably only wearing it because of the nip in the air from the earlier rain.

"No," he begins. "It's my daughter's birthday. Thought I'd let her pick something out."

Madge finally sees the little dark haired girl at his side, hiding just behind his left leg. She might know her from school, but she can't quite remember. School is unpleasant and Madge just tries to blend with the walls most days.

"Oh, I see," Poppa leans over the counter. "How old are you today, dear?"

"Seven," she answers dutifully looking at her father.

Her father grins at her and winks and the girl grins back.

"Just a little older than my granddaughter," Poppa gestures to Madge who remains just out of sight behind the candies in the glass. "She'll be seven the first of June."

The man, Jude, bends down and peeks at her between the rows of candies, through the glass. He grins at her. Before she knows what she's doing she's ducked into her Poppa's side and buried her face from sight.

"A shy one, I see."

Poppa laughs, a deep rumble shakes Madge.

"Not so much shy as just unsure, I think," he tells Jude as he runs a hand over Madge's hair.

She isn't sure what he means by that, but she's had enough of the hard looks and filthy words from the children of miners and Seam people to know not to draw them in. Best not to be seen, noticed, than to be on the receiving end of hurtful things.

Jude makes a grunting noise before turning his attention back to his daughter and asking her what she wanted.

The girl isn't sure, she's never had any candy before.

"Might I make a suggestion?" Poppa gives Madge a little nudge, edging her down the case. "Your mother always did love the cherry glass."

He plucks up a small chunk of the candy, pink and red swirls on a crystal sliver, and reaches over the counter to hand it to her.

She looks at him skeptically, then to her father.

"Go ahead, Katniss, take it and see."

She smiles a little before taking the candy. It crunches, and she makes a face, clearly not a fan of the texture, but soon is smiling and enjoying it once she's better acquainted with it. The girl, Katniss, grins up at Poppa, pleased with his selection.

Jude eyes the price, Madge can see him mentally calculating how much of the overly sweet treat he can afford. Before he's even finished, Poppa has scooped out a healthy portion and poured it in a small paper bag.

Jude frowns and shakes his head, but before he can speak Poppa cuts him off.

"It's getting close to having to be tossed. I'll give it to you half priced."

He's lying. Madge helped him make it just two days before. Jude seems to know too, but Katniss already has the bag in her little hands and is beaming at her treasure. Jude gives him a very hard look. Like he's paying a price more than the money the candy should cost.

"And you pay only half for the roots next Sunday."

Poppa narrows his eyes, looks like he might fight him, but then he burst into laughter.

"You drive a hard bargain, Jude Everdeen, but it's a deal."

Once Jude and Katniss leave and the candy is set, Madge sits at the kitchen table at the back of her Poppa's candy shop and slowly eats a chunk. It's the perfect combination of soft and solid, just like Poppa had said it would be.

She breaks her piece in half and sets it next to her mother's hand. She doesn't seem to notice it, but Madge can learn patience.

Poppa was right about the candy and waiting. Maybe if she waited long enough her mother, like the candy, would set properly. All the disjointed parts of mind would settle and she'd let her sister's memory rest in the past and she'd see Madge. Maybe instead of 'Matilda' and 'Maysilee' she'd write 'Matilda' and 'Madge'.

Madge watches her mother stare off into nothingness and ignore the candy, and waits.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I'm just playing with Suzanne Collins' characters and her world. They're hers. Not mine.

**Heart and Soul**

Madge had the pair of glasses filled with sweet tea carefully balanced in each hand. The ice rattled ominously as she slowly carried them into the front room where Vick was waiting.

When she crossed the threshold he was by her piano, he'd lifted the cover over the keys and was experimentally tapping the C-key farthest from her. It rang out clear and high.

He doesn't hear her come in, all his attention is on the piano.

She sits the glasses down gently, but it still startles him and he slams the cover back down, catching the very tip of one of his right hand fingers.

"Damn!"

He puts it to his mouth and sucks it.

Madge rushes over in concern, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he grimaces.

She shakes her head. He's stubborn about showing any kind of supposed weakness. Being the youngest or his brothers, and by far the most sensitive, he doesn't like to be babied. It's cute, but Madge worries sometimes it'll end up getting him hurt someday.

"Let me see," she grabs his hand and examines it. The heavy cover just nipped it. She imagines it hurts, very badly, but it's more his pride that's damaged judging by the way he tries to pull his hand from her.

She lets him struggle a minute with her, a playful little tussle, before letting him have it back.

"I think you'll live."

He rolls his eyes at her.

Much more carefully than Vick had slammed it, Madge opens the cover to the keys.

"Before Panem, my dad says they use to make the keys from ebony and ivory covers. They killed the animals though, that the ivory came from, and ebony is too rare so they started with different woods." She presses down the scales, A, B, C, D, E, F, G. "These are all plastic."

Vick runs a finger over the C again. "Do you play a lot?"

She'd been trying, with absolutely no success, to teach Katniss. Other than that she hasn't played much for pleasure, so she shrugs.

"Play something."

He gives her one of his little grins, his dimples are going to make him a devil when he's older, if he chooses to be.

"Play what?" She settles down on the narrow bench, Vick plops next to her.

His face scrunches up in thought, "Something happy."

She sits up a little straighter, her instructor had always lamented her poor posture, and puts her fingers on the keys, taps out the first few notes of 'Heart and Soul' before shuffling into a more comfortable position and starting again.

When she finishes, Vick's eyes are wide, as though he's never heard anything as amazing as the song Madge had learned as an eight year old.

"That was amazing!"

She snorts. She's average, maybe slightly above, at best. He only thinks she's any good because he's never heard the masters of the past, as she had. Compared to them she barely deserves to play 'chopsticks'.

Vick taps a few chords out, dissonant and uncoordinated, and frowns.

"Gale and Rory don't care much for music." He taps another key. "Don't see any point in it. I like it, though."

Madge knows Katniss doesn't see much point in music either, and guesses Gale, and by extension Rory, see it as equally useless. After all, what good is music when you're near starving to death?

But Madge isn't starving, never has had that danger hanging over her head, so she can indulge in the beauty of a little music, however increasingly infrequent.

She gives Vick a small smile, "I like it too."

#######################################

It's been years since Madge had played anything.

After the bombing, losing her family, living her little half life in Ten, she'd finally understood why people from the Seam had so little use for music. What were silly little songs in the grander scheme of things?

But when the Hawthornes came to visit her, dragged her to the little restaurant near her shared apartment, and Vick's eyes lit up at the sight of the little piano in the corner and he gave her that same sweet smile she knew she would have to find her love of it again.

She's happy to be with them, that's true, but she can't find it in herself for the first song to be cheerful.

Her mother used to love Nocturnes, would have Madge play them for her during frequent bouts of insomnia to lull her to sleep. Her father generally asked for heartier songs, things similar to what he'd grown up hearing the wranglers and ranchers sing. The housekeeper, Mrs. Oberst, had just wanted silence.

Madge settled on a compromise.

A lullaby, one her father had sung to her when she'd been very small, before her mother had reached the worst of her illness.

It's sad, there's no doubt about that. Slow and low, it ushers someone to sleep with the promise of a better morning. Now that she's older, Madge wonders if it isn't urging someone to their eternal rest with the promise of a better afterlife. It would have to be a better afterlife. This life they had now was often so gloomy, surely they deserved something of a reward when it ended…

Despite the dimness of her choice of song, she feels lighter when she finishes.

When it's over Vick has taken the seat beside her.

His voice cracks, it hasn't quite settled into what she's sure will be as deep a sound as his brothers'.

"Still the best I've ever heard."

Madge gives him a sad smile. She's worse than she'd ever been, out of practice and sluggish, but she appreciates his compliment just the same.

Maybe there's no point in music. Just a distraction from the misery they live in, but it's such a beautiful distraction.

She sits up straighter and poises her hands on the keys. She's starting back at the beginning. Where she'd started as an eight year old. The first song she'd played for Vick back in District Twelve.

"How about something a little happier this time?"


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I'm just playing with Suzanne Collins' characters and her world. They're hers. Not mine.

**Pariah**

"Happy Birthday, Pearl."

Madge grinned as her father kissed the top of her head.

She was eight. Or she would be, at a little after five that evening, her mother had told her she'd been born just before dinner.

Her dress was new and her shoes were polished, the ribbon in her hair was trimmed of the frayed ends, and her Poppa was bringing her cake to the house just after noon. Best of all Mrs. Oberst, the housekeeper, had been given the day off. A whole day free of her critical eyes and hateful tone was undoubtedly the best gift Madge had ever received.

Though she wasn't particularly fond of her birthdays, they only seemed to bring her closer to Reaping, they at least held the opportunity to spend more time with her parents. Her father would leave his office, be home early and in time for her small party, and he promised her, _promised_ on his favorite coffee mug, that her mother would be down, functional, for the cake and ice cream as well. She hoped he didn't disappoint her this year.

He'd asked her if there were any children, _friends_, she'd wanted to invite. Birthdays were important, they should be shared with more than just family, and she'd been in school for several years now, surely she had one or two she wanted to come share the festivities with?

There were none though. Madge didn't tell him that, only told him she wanted to have he, her mother, and her Poppa to herself for the day.

She didn't tell him, couldn't bring herself to say, that she was less than the coal dust ground into the filthy tiles of the school to most kids. The dust at least received attention, even if it was just to be removed. Later, only months after her birthday, she would regret that thought, when a group of boys would jostle, pay her some painful attention, make her cry. At the moment though, the lack of acknowledgement had pushed her spirits low.

Of course there were a few kids that were nice to her, but then, they were nice to everyone. Peeta Mellark and Delly Cartwright were the epitome of friendliness, but they didn't deserve to have her dark mark cast over them by her inviting them to her party.

She'd read about people like her, rejects from society, pariahs.

There was something so inherently wrong with her, something so bad, that she knew she was destined to be alone.

So her father left her to their nearly empty house. She sat at the kitchen counter, coloring a little picture of she, her mother, father, and Poppa, contemplating going into the front room and tapping on the piano. It was new, her birthday gift along with the lessons she would soon be receiving, and she was fascinated with the noisy box with teeth.

She's just about convinced herself to go slam on the keys when she hears a racket in the backyard, out by the shed.

It was a strangled, mangled, sound mixed with a bang and the clatter of something collapsing with great force.

Along with Mrs. Oberst, the rest of the staff had been given the day off as well, so Madge had no one to accompany her out to investigate. But she had to.

Before going out, she ducked under the counter and pulled out the heaviest pan she could lift and dragged it along with her. No sense in going out unarmed.

Quietly she crept, out the door, across the porch, down the steps, and around the house. The side of the shed she could see was clear, no sign of anything amiss. So it must've come from the far side.

She dashed across the distance between the side of the house and the shed, pressing herself breathlessly to the peeling wood, then began inching around to the back.

Taking a steadying breath, she peeked around, eyes just barely popping out from it.

On the ground, in a pile of clothes and unkempt hair, was a man. He was groaning, moaning still. He'd pulled the rack, the one she and her Poppa had set up for when they were planting, over on himself. Soil and seeds were scattered around him.

At first she thinks he's one of the unfortunate homeless, a starving citizen of the District come to exact some kind of personal revenge on the Mayor.

Then he rolls over.

"Mr. Abernathy?"

She'd met District Twelve's lone Victor several times, mostly at the annual Reaping for the Hunger Games, but also on other occasions. He'd come for her mother, a ranting, raving mess, on several dark nights, long after the family had gone to bed. Her father had helped him pick himself up, dragged him to the downstairs shower and hosed him into a sort of sobriety, before shutting him in a guest room to dry out.

"He feels a kind of kinship with her."

That's what her father had told her. He'd been Aunt Maysilee's District partner during the Games that had ended her life and somehow thought of Madge's mother, Maysilee's twin, as a tether to that ever distant disaster. Maybe he thought he owed her something, for coming home when Maysilee didn't, but Madge doubted that. Mr. Abernathy didn't strike her at the type to regret living when another had died, but she did think, rather sadly, he might regret surviving at all.

The lump that was Mr. Abernathy grunted in pain, then rolled over on his back. He blinked dimly at Madge.

"How're y'doing, kiddo?"

Madge padded over to him, pan limply in her hand at her side, then drops to her knees at his side. He reeks of cheap liquor and filth, probably hasn't showered in days, possibly longer. She shrugs.

"That good, huh?" He eyes the pan. "Gonna knock me upside the head, sweetheart?"

She looks sheepishly at her chosen weapon then up to him. He laughs.

"What're you doing here Mr. Abernathy?" She finally asks him once his gurgling chortle dies out.

His scruffy face stretches into a grin, "Your birthday, isn't it?"

How he knew and why that mattered, Madge didn't know, but she nods anyway.

He reaches his stained fingers into one of his pant pockets. She'd seen him smoke cigars with her father, he must do it more often than that for his fingers to be that yellow. After a moment of digging and swearing, he pulls his hand out, clutching what looks to be a wad of paper. He holds it out to her.

_Please don't be used tissue._ She silently prays as she diplomatically takes the wad.

Carefully, afraid of what she might find, she unfurls the mess.

In it is a golden pin, very expensive. A circle with a bird in the center. A mockingjay.

Her mother had a similar pin, she'd seen it in her jewelry box.

"It, uh, was your aunt's, Maysilee's. Thought you were old enough now to have it. Your mother mighta thrown it at me a couple of years after I came home."

Her mother is hardly violent, but Mr. Abernathy did seem to bring out the worst in people, so it's possible.

"Why?"

He runs a hand over his grizzled beard. "Told her I was sorry. First time I'd talked to her since…well…" He sighed, "She told me I deserved my life, deserved this crap."

"She was just sad," Madge tells him.

Her mother was very sad, all the time. She was so sad it made her head hurt, or maybe she was sad because her head hurt, Madge didn't know. She suspected the first, though.

"She misses her sister," Madge adds, turning the pin over in her hand.

"We all miss someone," he mutters.

He stared at his hands, picked at them a little.

The thought finally comes to Madge that Mr. Abernathy had no one.

Madge knew of no family, no mother, father, brothers, sisters, no aunts, uncles, or cousins, no elderly relatives that he visited. He had no friends, though he hardly encouraged warm feelings with his demeanor and hygiene. He was more alone than even Madge herself.

She takes his hand, gives it a squeeze.

"Mr. Abernathy, would you like to come to my birthday party?"

He stares at her, studies her for several minutes. Madge half wonders if he's fallen asleep with his eyes open. She's positive Mrs. Oberst can do that…

"I'd like that, kid."

She helps him upright himself, then takes him in the house and makes him clean himself, he's still filthy after all. Her mother might get upset, but that's only if she makes it to the party, which based on the past few years, isn't likely.

Mr. Abernathy isn't a friend, not like what her father had imagined, but he's like her. A pariah. An outcast for reasons he isn't quite in control of, and Madge thinks maybe that's close enough.

Later that night she shows the pin to her mother. She hadn't been able to get out of bed, the last morphling dose, the new medicine the doctor was trying for her headaches, had knocked her out quite hard.

She doesn't say anything about throwing it at Mr. Abernathy, Madge thinks she may not even remember doing so. She doesn't ask how it came back to Madge, just stares at it happily.

"May's pin."

She fastens it to Madge's nightgown.

"You should wear it to the Reaping, when you're older. For luck."

How the pin is supposed to bring her luck when it had so magnificently failed her mother's twin, she doesn't know, but she nods anyway.

Her birthday had brought her one step closer to her first Reaping, just as it always did, and Mr. Abernathy, her fellow pariah, had given her one more symbol of the life the Reaping had stolen and her father's position had denied her.

He'd given her an expensive family heirloom, a glinting reminder to all that saw it that she wasn't like them. That she was the 'have' to their 'have not'.

She was a pariah.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I'm just playing with Suzanne Collins' characters and her world. They're hers. Not mine.

**Twinkle, Twinkle**

"A long time ago, in this very country, there were people who built ships and others who flew them, that went all the way to the moon."

Madge sat on the lowest step of her back porch with her father, wiggling her feet out in front of her and staring up at the inky expanse above them. It was late, usually Madge would be in bed by now, but her father had let her stay up to watch the 'stars fall'.

They weren't _really_ stars, just debris, he explained, but they sounded amazing to Madge no matter what they were.

"You may never see it again in your lifetime," he'd told her. A lifetime seemed like a very long time, to her five year old ears, to never see something as amazing as stars dropping from the sky again, but her father had much more lifetime to know that sort of thing, so he must be right.

He often took her out, showed her the constellations which changed with the seasons, told her the stories for each. Sagittarius that led the Argonauts to the Golden Fleece, Ariadne's crown, poor Andromeda chained to her rock…

"Does that star have a name?" Her stubby finger stretched toward a much more distant point of light.

He shook his head, "No, Pearl, but not all of them do. That doesn't make them any less amazing, though." Her father pointed to Sirius, "The dog star is the brightest star in the summer sky, but even it gets blotted out by the sun, when it rises, and some are so far away, they aren't there anymore. They're light takes many, many years to reach us after their death," he waved his hand across the diamond sprinkled heaven.

"But, then we can be following a dead star. It's not there and we're following it?"

He nodded. "Stars are a lot like people, Magdalene. Some guide us with their light even after they're gone."

Everything, he would often tell her, had a time and a place. The sun, which was also a star, had its time in the day, illuminating them so they could work. But the sun was bright, so close, that if it stayed too long, if they looked at it too long, it would burn them. When the sun disappeared and the sky no longer blazed with its light, the less brilliant stars could be seen again. They were distant, beautiful, and though they could only just break the darkness, they could guide a weary traveler. They could be a constant.

Madge thought of her mother, still wandering through life, still chasing her dead sister. Her Aunt Maysilee, she decided, was her mother's constant. Though where she was leading her was a mystery.

"Men walked on the moon once, their foot prints are probably still there." He put his finger to her nose, "And, why, my little pearl, is it important we know about those amazing people who did the impossible? About the stars in the sky?"

She wrinkled her little nose in thought, no matter how many times he asked, she always forgot the answer.

"Because…"

"Because it _wasn't impossible_," he finished. "We always need to remember that no matter how bleak a situation may seem, there is always hope, nothing is impossible."

Madge nodded. She would get the answer right next time.

"Why else?"

Her little mouth turned down, "Um, because they learned things? They learned things that helped people, made people's lives better, even though they didn't all-weren't all alive to see."

She smiled, she'd gotten that right, she knew it. Her father chuckled.

"Very true. We can't always know how far reaching our actions are. That's why we must always strive to be our very best, our kindest, even to those who aren't always their very best or their kindest to us." He smoothed her hair, "We may be one of many guiding lights to any number of people. We may do a great thing, or a very small thing, and never know the consequences of our actions."

Again, Madge nodded, her father was right, he often was.

"Look, it's starting."

Her eyes widened as the sky began streaking with lights smearing down the curve of the earth. It was beautiful, even if they weren't really stars.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I'm just playing with Suzanne Collins' characters and her world. They're hers. Not mine.

**Visitors**

Madge had just finished heating some milk for hot chocolate, Mr. Abernathy had brought her some back from the Capitol, when there was a clattering at the back door.

She ducked down, behind the little island counter, and peaked around the edge, hoping the unknown party hadn't seen her already. Her mind can't come up with anyone who would be visiting. It must be for her father, no one visits her or her mother except Mr. Abernathy, and he's down with a cold.

Through the glass on the door she could see at least four people, large, probably men. One of them knocked again.

He leaned into the glass, hands cupped to help him peer in. Madge squinted, tilted her head, he looked familiar.

"Mr. Hawthorne?"

She crawled out from behind the island and padded over to the door, gazing up at him. He's the same as he'd been a few days ago, with his scruffy beard and cheerful smile. His son isn't with him, though, and she feels a little disappointed at that.

"Hello little lady," he grinned down at her from behind the glass. "Is your dad home?"

Madge peeks around him, at the less friendly looking men. She wouldn't mind telling Mr. Hawthorne that, no, her father wasn't home, probably wouldn't be for a while, there was a problem with the mines and he'd been in a many weeks long debate with the Capitol over it, but the other men…she didn't want them to know she was basically home alone, would be for quite a while, even though she was most of the time.

She has a quick mental debate before shaking her head. It would do her no good telling them he was, they were obviously there to see him, and if she said yes and couldn't produce him they'd know she was lying.

"Well, when will he be back?" One of the large men asks loudly.

Madge chews her bottom lip. She hadn't seen her father more than a few minutes each morning the last couple of days. She'd tried to stay up, sat in the chaise in her parents' room to keep herself awake to see him each night, but had yet to be successful. Every morning she woke in her room, rushed down to the kitchen just to get a quick kiss on the head from him before he left again.

Finally, seeing no way around it, she shrugs. "Soon."

She hopes anyway.

One of the men says a very bad word and Mr. Hawthorne and another man shoot him a look.

"Watch your language. There's a kid here," the other man tells him.

He's familiar. It takes a minute to place him, but she finally remembers him as the man that sold roots to her Poppa, before he died.

"We'll just wait for him," Mr. Hawthorne tells them. A couple of the men grumble.

"Can't we go in the house?"

"It's cold as balls out here!"

Mr. Hawthorne and the other man turn to the complainers, tell them something Madge can't hear, but it seems to calm them. One of them, the oldest one, hobbles over to the swing and sits with a contented smile. He's got a hole in the end of the toe of his boot, and Madge wonders if he could use the old pair her father hasn't used in ages.

She hates for Mr. Hawthorne to have to stay out in the cold, it's been below freezing several of the last few nights, and there's no telling when her father would be home. He's nice, he won't hurt her, she knows that at least, but she doesn't know if she wants the other men in the house.

Finally, after a particularly strong gust of wind knocks Mr. Hawthorne's friend's hat off and he has to chase it into the yard, Madge unlocks the door.

"You can wait inside, if you want…"

############################################

There are only five of them, but they seem to fill up the kitchen with their heavy coats and clunky boots. The old man slumps down at the little breakfast table, he's much too old to be out in the frigid December wind, and far too old, Madge thinks, to be working in the mines still.

There's a younger one and the other cranky one with a reddish beard who stand at the window while Mr. Hawthorne and his friend take the barstools.

Madge wonders if she's supposed to offer them refreshments or if they'll get offended, people from the Seam didn't take her hospitality very well. She'd offered a girl in her grade one of her apple slices just the last semester only to have it thrown back in her face.

"I don't need your charity."

She'd only wanted to keep her from being hungry and passing out, she hadn't brought a lunch from what Madge could see, and she'd already been scolded for nodding off in class the day before.

She glances over at her hot chocolate, it's warm and delicious. Maybe they wouldn't be upset about something so tasty.

"Doyouwantsomehotchocolate?"

Mr. Hawthorne frowns, "What was that?"

Madge swallows hard and takes a breath, "Do you want some hot chocolate?"

His mouth stretches up into a crooked smile as he shakes his head, "That's okay, we're fine."

The old man doesn't seem to think so, though.

"What've you got there, honey?"

Madge takes her mug to him and offers it. He stares at it for a minute before taking it and slurping a long drink. He smacks his lips, his white beard is stained with the chocolate and she fights off a giggle at the sight.

"That's some nice stuff."

Madge goes back to the counter and scuttles around to the far side. She crosses her arms and leans on it, peering up at Mr. Hawthorne, almost whispering, "I can make tea."

He laughs, deep and booming. Madge loves it, even if she doesn't know what exactly he's laughing at.

"Quite the determined little hostess, aren't you?"

She shrugs.

"What kind of tea have you got?" His friend asks.

Madge runs to the pantry and finds the little tin with the teabags in it, pulling it down, then running back to the counter and handing it to the friend.

He pulls out one with a raspberry on the front and Madge grabs it from him before running to the sink to fill the kettle.

When she turns back the man with the reddish hair is staring at her, a little darkly, he grins. She doesn't like it. He's like the men that say filthy things to her when she wanders too close to the Seam, threatens to do bad things to her.

"Aren't you just the cutest little domestic thing," his eyes flitter over her again. "Make some man real happy someday, won't you, princess?"

Mr. Hawthorne's friend narrows his eyes, "Phil."

He snorts, "What?"

"Leave her alone or go back outside," Mr. Hawthorne tells him firmly. He's glaring at the man. "She's just a little kid."

Phillip raises his hands, backs himself to the wall, but Madge still feels his eyes on her when she turns back to the screaming kettle.

She pours the water and drops the bag in, carries it to the friend, giving him a tight little smile.

He grins back, big and wide and warm. He's nice looking, though not as handsome as Mr. Hawthorne. He's cleaner shaven, a little less rough looking.

"You're in my daughter's year, Katniss Everdeen, right?"

There is a Katniss in her year, though she doesn't know her last name, but seeing as it isn't a common name, it must be the same girl, so Madge nods.

"Are you in the same class?"

She shakes her head.

"Do you know her?"

She supposes he means actually knows her, as opposed to just knowing the name, so she shakes her head again.

"Do you like school?"

Here head shakes back and forth vigorously at that.

Mr. Hawthorne laughs, "You're a lady of few words aren't you?"

Madge wrinkles her nose, she isn't sure what he means.

"If you two are through entertaining yourself with the brat, why don't you ask her something useful, like when her father will get home?" The younger man grumbles.

Madge picks at the sleeve of her robe. She looks up at Mr. Hawthorne, biting her lip again, worried he'll be angry. "He's been late for a few nights now."

"Then why don't you go get him for us, princess?" Phil asks, hateful eyes resting on her.

"We aren't sending a kid out in the cold just to make you happy, Phil," Mr. Hawthorne growls, scowling at the man. "He'll come when he comes."

###########################################

Madge tries the phone upstairs in her father's office, but the number is busy the several times she tries it. Her father is probably on one of his 'conference calls' with the Capitol. They never sleep there.

The clock ticks past midnight and Madge slumps down in front of the sink, rubbing her eyes.

She expect the men to leave, but they sit, determined as ever to see her father.

"W-w-why," she yawns, "do you need to see my dad?"

"There are some concerns about the mines," Mr. Everdeen tells her. "Nothing to worry your head about, kiddo."

She nods, her eyes are heavy and they burn, she hasn't been up this late ever in her life.

Someone crouches down in front of her and she blearily notes it's Mr. Hawthorne, grinning at her. He reaches out a hand and taps her forehead, shocking her eyes wide open.

"Why don't you go to bed, little lady, we can wait for your dad without you."

She shakes her head. She can't just leave them, she doesn't think Mr. Hawthorne or Mr. Everdeen or the old man will rob them, but she isn't sure about the other two. Besides, it's rude to leave guests on their own. Even if you can just barely stay awake.

"It's ok-k-kay, I'm not sleepy," she tells him, eyes closed and voice drowsy.

He chuckles, "I can see that, but you're very little and I'm sure it's well past your bedtime."

She nods, it's _very _past her bedtime, not that anyone would care.

Very vaguely, she becomes aware of hands pulling her forward and picking her up. The scent of earth and rain engulf her and she nuzzles into it, feels it vibrate with a chuckle.

"Dad will be h-h-homme soon," she mumbles against something rough and warm, before drifting to sleep.

She wakes when she hears the door click open and her father's shoes tap against the tile of the kitchen. She's been leaning on something warm and comfortable, wrapped around her and keeping her mostly upright.

Madge jerks over wildly, barely registering that there's an arm around her shoulder, "Dad?"

He's just inside the door, mildly taking in the scene in his kitchen.

"Having a party, Pearl?"

Madge looks to her right and realizes she had been leaning on Mr. Hawthorne and bursts into a violent blush. He chuckles, "I didn't want to leave you on the floor."

"Thanks," she mumbles as she hops up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"We've been waiting to talk to you, Mayor," Mr. Everdeen tells him, hand out.

Her father takes his hand and gives it a firm shake and a worried look.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting." He looks over at Madge, rumpled and bleary eyed, with a smile, "Get to bed, Magdalene."

Madge nods, stumbling in her half sleep state, over and into Mr. Hawthorne.

"Whoa," he rights her with a laugh.

After a few more awkward steps she falls into her father and gives him a hug. "'Nite, dad."

She lets go and falls drunkenly into Mr. Everdeen. "Sorry, sir."

He laughs and gives her a gentle nudge back in the direction of the stairs.

Someone says 'Sweet dreams, little lady' behind her and she thinks she must tell them something similar because she hears laughter coming from the kitchen as she reaches the top of the stairs.

As she climbs into bed, eyes still closed and hair in shambles, she sleepily wonders if Mr. Everdeen's daughter and Mr. Hawthorne's son will come with them next time they visit. That would be a nice visit, she thinks, a pair of visitors for her…


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I'm just playing with Suzanne Collins' characters and her world. They're hers. Not mine.

**Tea Party**

Madge was trying to carry the pitcher of lemonade down the back porch steps, but it was too heavy and she kept sloshing it out, creating big puddles as it splashed onto the wood with each step.

That was why Mrs. Oberst had refused to let her have her tea party inside.

"You'll just make a mess for me to clean up," she told her with a scowl.

Madge had promised she would clean it herself, she had never failed to in the past, but the old housekeeper only narrowed her eyes and growled for her to play outside.

Obediently, Madge had packed up her little table and two chairs, plastic teacup set, and her doll, dragged them all to the last bit of shaded ground in the backyard, under the old tree near the porch. She'd set them up, carefully setting places for herself, her doll, and a friend.

Peeta Mellark was her first choice to come, he was nice to her at school so she hoped that meant he would want to play with her outside of it. His mother, though, told Madge, rather coldly, that he had chores.

"No stupid games before he's finished his work."

Judging by the small crease between Peeta's eyes, Madge suspected his work was rarely ever finished.

Delly Cartwright was nice to everyone, but told her it was too hot to play outside.

"But we'll just be sitting," Madge pleaded.

Delly's yellow hair swished with each certain shake of her head.

"If you get to play inside then I'll come over."

As Mrs. Oberst wasn't likely to change her stance on Madge creating an unmanageable mess, no Delly.

Madge sat her doll in the little chair and poured her a tiny cup of lemonade.

"I hope you like it," she tells her. "I made it myself."

The gate creaked, her father had been meaning to oil it, and she turned to find Mr. Abernathy stepping through it.

He's clean shaven, his hair is fixed, nails appeared clean, and while his clothes were wrinkled, they were otherwise fresh. He must have been just returned from the Capitol. The Tributes hadn't lasted past the Bloodbath.

He'd been coming over more often, more or less sober, since he'd given her Aunt Maysilee's pin back, on her birthday. Usually he speaks to Madge for a few minutes before trying to see her mother. It's nice, like having an actual friend, even if he only really comes for her mother.

She doesn't know why he always comes to see her mother, she isn't very good company, being asleep all the time or in constant pain. Her father, she understands, he has a cabinet of expensive liquor for him to raid. Her mother though, has nothing to offer but expanses of empty, silent hours broken by the occasional bout of tears.

He squints over at her then crosses the patch of yard to the table.

"What've you got here, sweetheart?"

"I'm having a tea party."

He turns, checking around him for something, "You, uh, got some friends coming?"

Madge pushes a wayward strand of hair behind her ear as she shakes her head. She can feel him staring at her.

He nods. "Just you and the doll then?"

She nods.

"All busy, huh?"

She squints up at him, nose wrinkled. He has a small smile on his face, much nicer than the frown he constantly wears.

He squats down, gives her table a once over. "Why are you playing outside, kid? It's a little warm, isn't it?"

"Mrs. Oberst told me I hafta," she tells him quietly. She doesn't want the old lady to hear.

"And your mom let her?" He sounds a little annoyed.

Madge's mouth droops, "She's sleeping."

She did that a lot, since they'd started giving her the new medicine.

Mr. Abernathy nods, seeming to understand, before he stands and heads back toward the porch. Madge watches him climb the steps, open the door, not even knocking, and step in.

Not expecting him to come back, Madge begins her tea party again, offering her doll an invisible cookie, Mrs. Oberst wouldn't let her have any of the real ones.

Her head snaps over when she hears the wooden screen on the back porch slam. Mr. Abernathy had come out, let it drop back behind him, as he made his way back to her.

"Let's pack this in, sweetie, it's too hot out here for you."

Madge shakes her head, "Uh-uh, Mrs. Oberst'll kill me."

He grumbles something that Madge is certain isn't very flattering about the old housekeeper before he picks up Madge's doll and hands it to her. "Don't worry your pretty little head about that. She and I came to an understanding."

He folds the chairs and table, presses them under his arm, and carries the heavy pitcher with much more ease than Madge had, not even spilling a single drop.

Carrying it inside, he sets it up, just the way she'd had it outside, then takes the doll from Madge and sets her carefully in her seat.

"There," he drops down, cross legged by the table and grabs one of the spare cups from the center. "Fill 'er up, sweetheart."

She eyes the pitcher warily. It's still a little cumbersome and she knows she'll spill at least a little…

"Don't worry about a mess. It's her job to clean it up, anyway." He shakes his cup. "And if the old witch gives you any trouble, you let me know, understand?"

He has a strange look in his eyes, and Madge doesn't think she will tell him, no matter how horrible Mrs. Oberst gets. She'll just clean it up herself.

As she carefully tips the lemonade over, splashing the juice into his cup with as little mess as she can manage, she tells him, "There's no alcohol in it, you know?"

He gives her a little grin, "I'll manage."

############################################

Mr. Abernathy convinces her to pull the tin of cookies down from the pantry and they sit eating them at her little table as the afternoon creeps along.

"What's your dolly's name?" He plucks it up.

It's got a head of black yarn hair and a stained and faded dress. One of her arms is missing and Madge had glued one of her eyes back on.

"She doesn't have a name," she tells him.

She'd had several dolls, all with pretty names and pretty dresses, only a few years before, but she'd had them all outside one day, playing in the garden and teaching them how she and her Poppa planted, when a group of boys came up and took them. She found them, several days later, back in the garden, all ruined. They'd done terrible things to them. Her father had helped her bury them, even made a little marker for each of them.

After that she decided not to name her new doll that she'd made with her mother, on a good day. That would only make it harder when something bad happened to it.

Mr. Abernathy nods when she tells him about her lost toys.

He sets the doll back in her chair.

"It doesn't help," he says, eyes still on the doll, "not giving her a name."

She frowns at him, "Why not?"

Gray eyes flicker back to Madge. "It'll still hurt when she goes away."

He isn't talking about her ragged little doll anymore, at least she doesn't think he is.

Madge reaches over and pulls her doll to her. Her little fingers straighten the haphazard yarn hair.

"What should I name her then?"

He snorts, "Hell if I know."

"Well," she presses her lips together in thought, "what do you like? Other than drinking, I mean."

He looks confused. Madge looks back at her doll, battered and falling apart, poorly made.

"Mom liked the pearl dad gave her when they got married. So when they had me, dad wanted to name me 'Pearl', but mom didn't like that, so dad found Madge, 'cause it means pearl." She poked her doll, "I mean, Magdalene is my real name, but _nobody_calls me that."

Mr. Abernathy reaches out and takes the doll from her hands, gives it a hard look. He's quiet for what feels to be a very long time before he looks back to Madge, "My mother's name was Harriet. I liked my mother."

His eyes are shiny, and his voice is thick. Afraid he might cry, Madge gets up and rests her hand on his shoulder, "It's okay, Mr. Abernathy."

She doesn't really know if it is though. She doesn't think it is.

He nods, rubs his nose on his sleeve with a sniff. His free hand presses to his face, rubbing it roughly, before he looks back at Madge then to the doll.

"You're parents did a good job with your name, little pearl."

He holds the doll out to her as he pokes her in the cheek, winks, then looks up at the clock, it's much later than either of them realized.

"Guess I should be heading home."

Standing, he stretches, arms reaching toward the ceiling. He scratches his stomach and pops his neck. "Ugh."

Madge walks with him out the door, to the porch.

"Next week," he tells her, "I'll come by and bring some real refreshments." He points to her, "Then you, Harriet, your mom, and me, we'll have a good party, okay?"

She's pretty sure Mrs. Oberst is going to have him banned forever for whatever he pulled to get Madge's tea party inside the house, but he'd been fun to play with, so she nods. It's a nice thought, anyway.

He squats down and fixes the loose hair from her ponytail again, then leans forward and plants a scratchy kiss on her forehead.

Madge makes Harriet wave her goodbye with her only hand then skips back inside to clean her mess.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I'm just playing with Suzanne Collins' characters and her world. They're hers. Not mine.

**Mess**

Madge found her mother in the kitchen staring at a bowl. She'd pulled out sugar, flour, salt, confectioners' sugar, vanilla, several measuring cups and spoons, spread them out on the counter haphazardly near the bowl.

Mrs. Oberst had left, gone to the store and wouldn't be home for several hour, so if she was wanting to bake she was going to wait a very long time. The old housekeeper was very particular about the use of the kitchen. A mess would not be tolerated, and Madge's efforts at cleaning were never enough. She needed to put a stop to this, whatever it was.

"Mom?"

She didn't acknowledge Madge for a minute, just continued to stare at the bowl. Finally, she sighed.

"I'm making a cake, love."

Madge felt the frown form on her face. Why did her mother want to make a cake?

"The bakery is open, why not go there?" She suggests. "I'll go get your shoes."

She's just turned on her heels to go get them when her mother waves her hands frantically.

"No, no, no," she shakes her head, pale hair floating wildly as she does. "I want to make it."

Her mother clutches her hands in front of her, looks over the supplies again, eyes wide but determined.

Madge's shoulders slump. Candy, fudge, ice cream, she could handle those, but a cake? She'd never attempted it. Mrs. Oberst wouldn't allow it.

"Does it _have_to be a cake?" Madge asks, already guessing the answer.

Her mother nods certainly.

Madge wrinkles her nose, surveys the ingredients. She pulls a little footstool over and climbs up, reading the instructions, complicated and with a lot of words Madge didn't know. This was going to end badly, she just knew it.

####################################

The cake was lopsided, the icing was a little lumpy, and they'd not waited long enough to put it on so it had melted off a little, forming thick, cascading puddles on the sides. Her mother was happy despite it.

She smiled serenely, turned the plate and examined it.

Madge grinned before turning back to the mess they'd made. Mrs. Oberst was going to have kittens. Smile slipping off, Madge goes to the sink and starts to fill it. Her mother reaches around her though, and turns the tap off.

"No, we need to go."

She pulls Madge along. At some point she'd covered the cake, prepared it for travel, scooped it up in passing as she dragged her daughter out the door with her.

"Mom!" Neither one of them had shoes on and they needed coats, evening was coming on and when the sun finally settled down in the west the already cool air of fall would be even more chilly.

Her mother was oblivious though, wholly focused on delivering her hard made cake. Madge finally gave up trying to convince her to turn back when they began in a wide circle around the town. At least they wouldn't be seen, maybe they would simply end up back home at the end of it.

To Madge's great confusion they entered the Victor's Village, padding softly and quietly to the only occupied house. Mr. Abernathy's.

It's larger than their house, but less beautiful. The pain is faded and peeling, a few of the shutters have fallen off. The yard is woefully maintained, overgrown and full of burrs that catch in the ends of Madge's and her mother's dresses and stab their feet.

Rubbing her arms, Madge follows her still blissfully happy mother as she makes her way to the back porch, up the step, then gently knocks on the door.

_No one is home_. Madge is certain of it. The windows are dark, shades drawn, though she supposes he might keep it like that all the time, sunlight sometimes made her mother's headaches worse, maybe Mr. Abernathy got headaches too.

To her great surprise the door flies open, the stench of alcohol and filth hit them, and a disheveled Mr. Abernathy appears, brandishing a knife and waving it wildly. It takes him a second, he freezes, stares at them, seemingly uncertain of what he's seeing.

"'Tilda?"

He still has the knife up, loose in his hand, pointed at the middle of her chest, but she smiles at him nonetheless.

"Happy birthday, Haymitch!"

So _that's_ why it had to be a cake.

His eyes flicker to the cake, now lifted up for his inspection, then to the grinning woman, taking her in.

"Where are your shoes? Why don't you have a coat?" He closes his eyes and sighs before reaching out, taking the cake from her and giving her a tug into the house.

He doesn't notice Madge until he's gotten her mother halfway through the door.

"You either, sweetheart?" He asks as he takes in her lack of proper footwear and coat.

When she shakes her head he shoots an irritated glare at her mother.

"I wanted to come before the sun went down," she explains, waving her hand vaguely out to the horizon.

Mr. Abernathy huffs and shuffles them in, grumbling that it would've taken 'ten seconds' to at least put on shoes.

The doorway leads to the kitchen, which is filthy beyond Madge's imagination. Empty bottles litter the floor, counters, and table, trash is discarded, tossed everywhere, stains of long dried liquids spread across most of the surfaces…

Mrs. Oberst would consider any mess Madge made a blessing if she ever saw it.

The door bangs closed behind them, taking the fading sun's dim light from them. After a moment Mr. Abernathy flicks the switch, turning on a lonely, naked bulb over the table. At one point it had had an elaborate cover of some sort, Madge could see the dusty vestiges, but it had broken, leaving just a few shattered pieces at the base of the bulb.

"Uh, sorry about the mess."

He begins bumbling around in the yellow light, clearing off the table, a monumental task, shoving the clutter off and to the already full floor then depositing the cake in its place. He glances around, there are no chairs, so he begins digging in the pantry, pulling out a couple of crates and setting them down as makeshift seating.

"Have a seat, ladies."

Madge's mother floats over, sitting gracefully.

Carefully, Madge picks her way across the floor, still managing to step in something sticky, before hopping onto her own seat.

Her mother pulls the cake towards herself, "We made it ourselves. Do you like it?"

His mouth turns up as he scratches his stubble covered face, looking at the lumpy, uneven cake. "It's real nice, 'Tilda." He shifts his gaze to Madge, "You too, Pearl."

Madge can't help but grin at the acknowledgment.

"Came all this way, guess we might as well eat some."

The color drains from Madge's face. She begins praying he has clean plates and utensils somewhere in the trash heap he calls his house.

He opens a cabinet, revealing dozens of neatly stacked plates. He pulls three down and blows them off, clearly he never uses them. Utensils seem to be a more pressing issue, he opens a drawer, quickly slamming it, then another. Apparently not finding any, he runs his hand over his face, thinking.

"We don't need any, Haymitch."

Madge's mother has stood and glided to his side, pulling he and the plates back to the table. She picks up the knife he'd sat next to the cake and begins to cut into it when Mr. Abernathy, apparently not trusting her with a sharp object, takes it from her and begins serving out the cake himself.

Her mother sits, taking her plate in her lap, picks up her slice between her fingers and begins eating.

Normally, Madge would think eating with her hands was a little crude, it was cake, but her mother was doing it and Mr. Abernathy was obviously not a stickler for etiquette, so she followed her mother's lead.

They sit in relative silence, only the hum of the light and their soft chewing breaking the quiet.

Mr. Abernathy finishes first, glancing out the window with a frown. "Sun went down."

He turns to Madge's mother, giving her a hard look, "You and little Pearl here are gonna fre-"

Her fingers reach up, pale against his dark stubble, brushing some crumbs from the side of his mouth.

"Haymitch, you're filthy." She smiles emptily. "You need to take a shower."

Madge frowns as she watches them. Mr. Abernathy needs far more than a shower, she's positive of it.

A little grin forms on his lips, he looks like he's about to say something clever or crude, but then glances over, notices Madge still eating her cake and watching he and her mother, and thinks better of it. He realizes her fingers are still at the side of his mouth and pulls them down, giving them a squeeze.

"I'll keep that in mind."

He looks down at their feet again, then their bare arms and slightly too light dresses. After a minute of thought he gets up, telling them to wait, as if they'd venture further into the dark and undoubtedly filthy depths of his house.

When he comes back he's brought a couple of pairs of thick socks and two large coats.

"Put these on." He hands them each some socks and a coat.

Madge frowns and looks at her still sticky foot. "Mr. Abernathy, I stepped in something."

A little sigh escapes his lips as he goes to the sink, grabs a washcloth of questionable cleanliness, then comes back to her, squatting down and taking her foot in his hand. At first he's careful, gently washing off whatever it was she'd walked in, then, as he finishes up, softly runs the pad of his finger up the sole of her foot. She jerks.

"Are you ticklish, Pearl?"

She tries to pull her foot away, but he grins and holds it tighter, tickling along the bridge.

"Stop!" She giggles.

He tussles with her for a minute, laughing at her feeble attempts to escape. She can't go far, she'll get dirty again. Finally, when she's good and flushed, cheeks pink and eyes bright with laughter, he stops and pushes the socks on. They dangle, just barely able to stay on they're so big.

Her mother, smiling softly, has put her socks on and pulled the coat on. It's heavy looking, elaborate, similar to the one he swiftly wraps around Madge. It smells musty, probably he'd worn it back from the Capitol then thrown it in the closet to rot, but otherwise it seems clean.

As she's about to stand, he scoops her up.

"I got you, kid."

He carries her out, into the cool night, her mother at his side. It takes several minutes, but Madge finally relaxes, wraps her little arms around his neck and rests her head on his shoulder, just below his scraggly cheek.

They make it halfway around the outskirts of town when her mother finally breaks the comfortable quiet of their walk.

"Did you like your cake?"

Madge peers sleepily up through her lashes at him, sees his mouth turn up and feels his chuckle through his chest. "Best I've ever had."

_Doubt that._ It was a little dry, fell apart a little too easily, and the edges were a bit burnt. 'Best' is definitely an exaggerated compliment.

She feels her mother's hand slip up and around Mr. Abernathy's arm, the one supporting Madge's legs, her cool fingers gripping into his dirty shirt sleeve. Her head comes to a rest against the side of his shoulder. He stiffens a little, but keeps walking, tightening his grip on Madge.

Her mother starts humming, it's a tune Madge doesn't know, but it's soothing. Combined with the warmth of Mr. Abernathy's coat, it makes her eyes heavy. Slowly she lets her already sleepy lids drift shut.

#######################################

Madge wakes when she hears the screen door to her kitchen clatter shut. She startles, nearly jumps from the arms holding her.

"Shhh. Careful."

Mr. Abernathy is still carrying her, they're in her house now, though, out of the cold night air.

Her head turns groggily, "I need to clean the dishes." Her mouth widens in a yawn, "Mrs. Oberst'll kill me if I l-leave it a mess."

She doesn't want to upset her, it makes things so difficult.

"Don't worry about it," he tells her. Which is easy for him, he doesn't have to deal with the old woman.

"Where's Danny boy?" He grumbles.

Sleepily Madge tells him, "Dad said he'd be l-late tonight."

She feels him shift her in his arms, sighing.

"Where's her room, 'Tilda?"

Madge doesn't hear her mother's response, she may not have said anything, she had a habit of simply guiding people to her answers with her vacant smiles and airy motions.

She feels them go up the steps to her room.

There's a soft creaking noise, then she feels herself being placed on her bed, someone gently rearranges the pillow under her head and pulls her comforter up, tucking it around her.

Something scratchy brushes against her temple and when she glances up finds Mr. Abernathy giving her a small smile.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart."

A drowsy smile flickers on her face, "'Nite, Mr. Abernathy." She blinks, "And happy birthday."

She pushes herself up and gives him a quick little kiss on his rough cheek.

He smiles, taps her on the nose, then backs away.

"Goodnight, love." Her mother whispers before kissing her hair.

They leave her, cracking her door so that a sliver of the hallway light breaks the dark of her room.

##############################

When she wakes she rushes downstairs, terrified that the housekeeper will have beaten her to the kitchen, only to find the entire mess gone. The bowls, measuring cups and spoons have all been cleaned and put away and the ingredient are back in the pantry. Even the flour and sugar have been wiped from the counters.

She finds a napkin propped up on a coffee mug, a messy note scrawled on it.

_'I told you not to worry about it.'_

She shifts her robe, which turns out to be Mr. Abernathy's coat. A little smile finds her way onto her face.

Maybe when she takes it and the socks back, once she's washed them, she'll help him clean a little of his house, though his mess is far grander than hers. Madge thinks he, unlike the housekeeper, will appreciate even her weak efforts.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I'm just playing with Suzanne Collins' characters and her world. They're hers. Not mine.

**Alone**

A/N: Okay, just as a warning to people, this story alludes to Madge's poor mom having some pretty significant depression. Depression is hard on those with it and their families, I've been on one side and had friends on the other. In this story Madge is about 8/9, so she's aware her mother is sick, and she understands it to an extent, but she feels a little abandoned anyway. Okay, I'll be quiet now.

#####################

Mrs. Oberst made liver again. Madge hates liver, but Mrs. Oberst insists it's good for the blood, which Madge is certain is completely made up, and she makes it at least once a week, probably just to annoy Madge.

Madge stared at her lumpy potatoes and cold meat. She'd been waiting nearly an hour at the small table in the breakfast nook for her father to come back, he'd rushed off after a call came from the Capitol about business they apparently felt was more important to deal with than dinner with her. His plate sat, barely touched, across from her.

Her mother's plate, equally cold, was completely untouched. She just didn't feel well enough to come to the table, was still in bed with the curtains drawn and a cool rag on her head. She'd probably taken another dose of her medicine.

Mrs. Oberst clomped in, she was annoyed at having to stay late to watch Madge until she went to bed, snatched up the untouched plate and took it to the still warm oven. She shoved it in before coming back to the table and taking Madge's father's plate as well.

"What're you doing?"

"Heating up your poor mother's dinner," she glared at Madge, as though it was her fault the food had gone cold.

Her mother wasn't coming down, apparently, and judging by the way the old woman was wrapping her father's plate, he wouldn't be making dinner either. Madge sighed.

"Will you heat my plate up too?"

It was a hopeless question, she already knew the answer.

"You _let_ yours get cold, missy. You'll eat it just as it is."

Madge opens her mouth to say her mother had let her plate go cold too, by being too pathetic to get out of bed and have dinner with her child like a normal person, but holds her tongue. Mrs. Oberst would probably just take her plate away and send her to bed hungry for talking back. At least if she stayed at the table with her plate, moving her food around, she might be able to stay up until her father came home.

Not that she wasn't just a little bit angry with him, but she might be able to guilt him into letting her have some ice cream to make up for the disappointing dinner. At least he had a real excuse for abandoning her.

The old woman banged around in the kitchen, finishing cleaning the few utensils still left, before turning back to the oven, donning a glove, and pulling the plate out.

She sent one last hard look Madge's way, before stomping up the stairs, yelling back at her, "There are starving children in the Seam! Don't be ungrateful!"

Madge wrinkled her nose. She wasn't ungrateful, she was just annoyed. Why did she always end up eating alone?

With a huff, she sat back, took her fork and began pushing the disgusting organ meat, smothered in a nasty sauce, around, hoping it would look like she was making headway on it.

The back door, just to her left, clanged open and a tall, haggard looking figure stumbled in.

Knocking, it seemed, was beyond this visitor.

Mr. Abernathy scratched his side, surveying the empty kitchen, then turning to Madge alone in the breakfast nook.

"Table for one tonight, huh, kid?"

She scowled at him, thought about flinging a forkful of her cold, lumpy potatoes at him, but decided against it. It just wasn't worth Mrs. Oberst's wrath.

Instead she puts her elbows to the table, looking forlornly down at the plate and hoping Mr. Abernathy would take the hint she wasn't in the mood for him or his teasing and go raid her father's liquor cabinet or stumble up to have an incoherent conversation with her mother. That's why he was there, no doubt.

He doesn't seem to sense her need to be alone, or doesn't care, and flops into the seat beside her. He mimics her slouch, elbows to the table, and grins over at her. When he opens his mouth to talk she can smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Why the ugly mood, Pearl? Pretty girl like you ought to be all smiles."

That only serves to make her frown deeper. She looks away from him. He doesn't like the look of the back of her head, though, and pokes her in the side.

"What's stuck in your craw?"

When she doesn't answer, he makes a noise, then she hears him shift in his seat. She thinks he's taken the hint, is getting up to leave, but then something pinches her side.

"Ow!" She turns and glares at him. "Stop that!"

He grins, then does it again.

"I said stop!" She bats his hand away. It doesn't really hurt so much as it tickles.

He doesn't stop though, he does it again and again until she's dissolved into giggles.

"There's your smile." He pokes her cheek. "Just as I suspected, stuck in your side."

She tries to glare at him, but her face won't respond, still too wound up from the tickling.

"Now," he sits back, pulling a flask from his pocket and taking a long swig, "what's got you so down, sweetheart?"

It isn't like he really cares, she knows that, but he's willing to listen, and that's more than most.

"Dad had to go into work," she makes an irritated face, "and mom won't come down."

He puts one of his elbows to the table, props his chin in his hand and frowns at her. "Your mom's sick."

_Don't you defend her too._ He would though. He was her mother's friend, not Madge's.

She sniffles, goes back to slapping the potatoes with her fork. "She just doesn't want to."

Mr. Abernathy gave her ponytail a little tug, smiled sadly.

"I'm sure she wants to-"

"No she doesn't," Madge snaps. "If she wanted to she would, but she doesn't. She doesn't lo-" Her voice catches, she swallows back her angry words and looks down at her plate.

If she wanted to, really wanted to, she could get out of bed. She did it sometimes, why not all the time? No one else's mother spent half their life crying in bed and the other half living in their own hazy reality. No one else's mother ignored them.

Mr. Abernathy's big hand comes to a rest on her head, smoothing down her hair a little. He reaches down and takes her chin in his hand, makes her look at him.

"Your mother loves you very much. Don't you ever forget that."

"No. She doesn't." If she did she would at least do her the simple courtesy of having dinner with her, help her get ready for school in the morning, pick out clothes, comb her hair, pack her lunch…

Her mother loved her morphling and her bed and her sadness over her long dead sister more than she would ever love Madge.

Hot tears begin stinging the backs of Madge's eyes and she blinks to fight them off.

"Mrs. Oberst said I make her worse." She tells him, remembering the old woman grumbling to one of her old hen friends about how much more exhausted and withdrawn Madge's mother had gotten after her daughter's birth.

"-couldn't even get out of bed. She was depressed before, but ever since she had the girl she's just wasted away, doesn't have the energy for anything. Couldn't even get her to feed the thing, kept crying, like she was going to break it…"

When she'd heard the words they hadn't made much sense, she'd taken it as nothing but more of Mrs. Oberst's irritated grumbling against her, but as she grew up, let a few years pass, what the housekeeper had meant hit her.

"I was such a bad baby I made her more sad than she already was."

Mr. Abernathy made a harsh noise and she looked at him, "You were a very good baby."

She rolled her eyes, "How would you know?"

"I know a lot, kid." He glared up the stairs, where Mrs. Oberst and Madge's mother were. "Whenever I'd see you with Danny boy, you were always the quietest, most well behaved baby I ever saw. Didn't even stink like all those other brats."

Madge thought it was a little rich off him to say babies stank, when he reeked of alcohol, but she supposed he didn't rank the two smells in the same class.

She couldn't have been as wonderful a baby as Mr. Abernathy claimed, or she would've made her mother happy, she would've wanted more children even.

It was the only explanation. Madge must've been such a disappointment her mother and father didn't even want another. "I wasn't good, Mr. Abernathy. That's why I'm alone. Mrs. Oberst-"

"The old hag doesn't know what she's talking about. You are the best thing in your mother's life, she told me so herself."

She didn't really believe him, he and her mother had a falling out sometime before Madge was born. He spoke with some drunken regularity to her father, but had only recently begun talking to her mother again, so when she would've told him such a thing was a mystery, probably a lie.

Still, it's kind of him to try and make her feel a little better.

Her voice creeps up, a little too high, "Then shouldn't I have made her happy?"

It seemed like such a joyous thing for everyone else. Why had Madge's birth not made a dent in her mother's mood?

"She's been real sad for a real long time, Pearl. You don't have a thing to do with it."

It was the stupid Game's fault, her stupid dead aunt, the stupid Capitol, and her mother's own stupid weakness. It was her father's fault for getting the morphling to fix the headaches. It was Madge's fault for not being good enough to make her mother want to be happy, no matter what Mr. Abernathy said.

Madge rubbed her eyes, squishing out a few tears and trying to smear them so Mr. Abernathy wouldn't notice.

He does though, sighs and takes her hand.

"Aw, kiddo, don't cry."

She can't stop herself, she's her mother's daughter after all, and the tears begin spilling out, down her cheeks and off her chin. Madge falls over to him and he pulls her onto his lap like her Poppa often did. She begins crying into his shirt. "I'm just tired of being alone all the time."

At home, at school, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, always alone.

The kids at school hated her, she'd come to grips with that long ago, but she kept foolishly hoping her mother would come around, want to spend more time with Madge than whatever kept her in her room.

He sighs, "I know the feeling."

Awkwardly, he pats her head. After a moment or two, he wraps his arms around her, pats her head, murmurs comforting nonsense into her hair with his liquored up breath.

A clomping comes down the stairs, Mrs. Oberst stops and glares with great dislike at Mr. Abernathy.

"What're you doing here?" She wrinkles her nose. "Smell like a cheap whore."

"Takes one to know one," he mutters to himself.

Mrs. Oberst eyes Madge's messy plate, narrows her gaze on her. "If you aren't going to eat then get to bed. I have a family of my own to tend to you know."

Deflating a little, Madge starts to get up, resigned to not seeing her father before bed, but Mr. Abernathy catches her by the shoulder.

"Why don't you go back to whatever level of hell you crawled out of, and I'll keep an eye on the kid until Danny boy gets home."

Madge expects a fight. Mrs. Oberst hates Mr. Abernathy more than she hates Madge, she won't leave him in her place of work alone.

To her great shock, though, the housekeeper smiles, "Fine."

She takes off her apron and hangs it on the hook by the door.

"She's your problem. You deal with her, explain to the boss why she hasn't eaten her dinner and is up past her bedtime."

With that and a dark look, she leaves, letting the back door bang behind her.

"Witch."

Madge gives Mr. Abernathy a stern look. "She's just doing her job."

Even if she is a little hateful about it.

He shakes his head, looks at the dinner plate and frowns. "Don't like liver, huh?"

Madge shudders.

"I'm not real fond of it either."

Mr. Abernathy dumps her cold dinner in the trash, leaves the dirty dish in the sink and forbids Madge from cleaning it.

"Tell her I licked it clean, she'll probably just throw it out."

He digs in the icebox and pulls out the ice cream, dips them both healthy portions out, and takes her to sit on the back swing.

"Feeling better?"

She grins. She does, a little bit at least.

He swallows a large spoonful of ice cream, frowns, "Listen, I know it's hard to understand, but grown ups are stupid sometimes. We don't always make good decisions, for ourselves and the people we care about, even if we mean well."

"Your mother, she hasn't had it easy, with her sister dying, being twins made it harder I suppose, then me being here…" He runs his hand over his face, "You are one of the few really good things she's had. Don't ever think any different."

She does think different, but she keeps quiet and nods. He thinks he's helping, she doesn't want to hurt his feelings.

"As for being alone, screw 'em all. If they're all too stupid to see how amazing you are, you don't need them." He grins at her, "I like you, and I don't care much for anyone, so that's a high compliment."

Madge snorts. He would think that.

He takes out his flask, uncaps it, then offers it to her before pulling it back with a grin, "Bad stuff, never touch it."

Her nose wrinkles, "Not a problem."

Laughing he wraps his arm around her shoulder, making the swing rock a little more. She points out a few constellations, just barely visible, to him, promises she'll teach him them someday then they finish the ice cream and Madge lets the buzzing bugs and the sway of the swing lull her to sleep.

At least she hadn't had dessert alone.


End file.
